(Dis)content

I thrust the key into the lock and shoved open the door for the apartment building. My skin felt too tight from all the crap I’d dealt with at the office. I should have quit like Ethan had said. Who cared if I spent my life tending bar? It would be easier, especially with the setup Ethan had.

Stopping in the entry, I checked my mailbox.

“Hi, Isabelle.”

The sound of my downstairs neighbor’s voice just added to my bad mood. My skin grew tighter with the waves of annoyance that rolled off him and soaked into me.

As a rule, I didn’t socialize with anyone in my building. It didn’t seem right trying to be friends with any of them. After all, I robbed them of any negative emotion they might have, so they didn’t have a choice but to like me.

Quickly grabbing my mail, I turned to give the man a tight smile and fled before he could pull me into a friendly conversation.

As a child, I’d always wanted friends. When Ethan came along and seemed to understand me better than anyone else ever had, I gave up on having friends and settled for having a friend. Singular. Ethan was enough.

I trudged up the stairs to the second floor, opened my apartment, and stepped inside with a sigh. My eyes fell on the bag hanging from the special support the landlord had installed for me. I wanted nothing more than to start hitting it but knew once I started, I wouldn’t stop until I drained everything. First mail, then change, and then dinner. After that, I could have at it.

Kicking off my flats, I sorted through the mail while walking to the kitchen. I didn’t need to pay attention to where I was going. My apartment wasn’t that big. The living room and kitchen flowed together with a tiny island separating them. The living room had my bag dangling from the ceiling and that was it. My bedroom had a TV, bed, and dresser. I didn’t need much.

I stopped mid-sort and stared at an envelope with a handwritten address. No return address. No postage. Weird.

I threw the bills to the side and set the envelope on the counter. The bills I’d write out later. The envelope had me curious, though. I would open it while I waited for food. The freezer had a nice selection of dinners waiting for me. I grabbed one at random and threw it into the microwave. As I listened to the hum of my dinner cooking, I tore open the envelope and pulled out a handwritten letter.

No matter how I write this, you won’t believe it. All I ask is that you don’t throw this away. Just consider it.

There are people looking for you. People who look human but aren’t. They know what you can do. They must not find you. If they do, they will hurt us both, and so many more.

Don’t trust anyone. Run. Stay hidden. Our time’s almost up.

I turned it over and glanced at the blank back. There was no greeting and no closing. Just an unsigned note. My eyes fell on the one sentence that truly concerned me.

“They know what you can do,” I murmured.

The microwave beeped, drawing my attention from the letter to the tension tingling under my skin.

I used a magnet to stick the letter to the refrigerator and drifted to my room to change. Dressed in spandex shorts and a tight exercise tank top, I padded out to the living room and ignored the cooling dinner that waited for me. I slipped on my gloves to protect my knuckles and started exorcising my demons.

The idea that someone might know about me didn’t scare me. I found it amusing. No one really knew but Ethan. Even my parents didn’t know, though they did have their own ideas about me; how could they not after raising me? But their suspicions weren’t close. They thought I exuded positive energy. I’d like to blame their hippie thoughts on their habits in the ‘60s and ‘70s, but they weren’t that old. The reality of what I did wasn’t that I released positive anything. It was the exact opposite.

I mostly siphoned negative emotions. But if I wanted, I could pull the positive ones, too. I felt what the people around me felt. Like sampling ice cream, their emotions had different flavors, letting me know their moods. Unfortunately, the siphoning wasn’t voluntary. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t completely turn it off. But, boy, could I turn it on. If I wanted, I could drain a room in two heartbeats. Taking away all that negativity made the people around me happy, but it did the opposite for me. The more I siphoned, the less I felt like myself. I grew agitated, angry even. The more I absorbed, the more my skin tingled, until it felt painfully tight. The only thing that helped relieve it was physical activity.

I hit the bag, timing the backswing, and set a grueling rhythm. Who would even think someone could do what I could do? And, if they did, why would they come after me? Idiots. I’d leave them on the floor with a gap-toothed smile.

Good luck to whoever thought they could take me.

****

The phone rang before my alarm. Hell hath no fury like a woman woken before her alarm. I fumbled to find the phone in the dark.

“Hello?” My voice cracked.

“Hey, Z. This is your reminder to pack your bag. You promised to cover tonight.”

“Ethan. You are sick to call me this early. I said I’ll be there. Now, leave me alone.” I ended the call without a goodbye.

The phone rang again before I could drop it back on the nightstand.

“What?” I answered.

“I’ve dusted your gloves, babe. You’re overdue.”

The call disconnected, and I smiled in the dark. Only Ethan, the huge pain in the butt I called friend, could annoy me and make me smile at the same time. He was right. I needed to go in and really purge.

Hitting the bag at home helped, but I suffered from a slow buildup. Ethan compared it to PMS. I grew moodier until I started an actual fight. Except the fights were never fair. In my anger, I pulled too much of my opponent’s emotions, and they tended to just stand there with a stupid smile as I hit them. But I couldn’t avoid the fights. I needed them. Hitting an actual person drained me way more than the bag, and it was the only thing that helped when I got like this. I hated fighting but didn’t see any other choice.

With a sigh, I slid from the sheets and shuffled to the bathroom. My long, red hair was a tangled mess, and I scowled at myself in the mirror. The green of my eyes seemed vivid against the bloodshot background.

I should have slept longer. I already felt edgy and knew it would be a long day.

****

Many hours later, I parked in front of Ethan’s bar and spar—located in a less than desirable part of town—and leaned my head against the steering wheel. How could a day go so wrong? I cringed remembering how, in a fabulous fury, I’d stormed my boss’ office, told her to shove her petty self-pity, which she’d been radiating all day, up her butt, and then left, slamming doors and pushing coworkers. Not one of my better resignations.

Ethan had been right; I was overdue.

Sitting back with a sigh, I started to change. I kicked off my flats and pulled my yoga pants on under my skirt. Someone walked by the car and stopped to stare in as I threw the skirt in the passenger seat. I pulled the curiosity right out of him, and he kept moving. The extra emotions bloated me and didn’t help my mood. Gritting my teeth, I swapped tops, not caring who saw. In a hurry, I pulled on my socks and sneakers. It felt good. I knew what was coming.

I stepped out of the car, not worrying about the people I sensed in the nearby alleys. They were too busy getting high to notice me as I strode across the street. The emotions of those inside the bar drifted toward me, increasing the tension I carried. With a scowl, I yanked the door open. The warm air pushed past me, lifting my hair slightly. The heavy beat of music beckoned me, but I didn’t pause. I shouldered my way through the bodies that crowded the room and made my way to the bar.

Ethan stood behind the cheap, laminate counter, filling orders. Tall and lean, he had the attention of most of the women in the room. The tight t-shirt he wore probably helped. He glanced at me as I moved around to the side and ducked under the bar to join him.

“E-Z!” a regular called out. I ignored him.

The bar came to life when Ethan and I tended together. We didn’t do it too often, anymore. It called too much attention to me.

“Damn, girl!” Ethan shouted to be heard. “The more you sit on that thing, the better it gets.”

I rolled my eyes at him, glad he’d chosen to comment on my butt rather than how early I was. The extra padding I’d acquired by taking up an office job only seemed to want to settle on my butt. It had to be those frozen dinners, I thought. It certainly wasn’t lack of exercise. I’d hit the bag for forty minutes straight last night.

“Glad you decided to quit yet another job so you could come in early to help. Better start shaking that thing.”

He just had to go there.

“Shut up, E.”

A few of the patrons who sat listening to our exchange laughed.

“Which one of you idiots wants a drink?” My voice carried over all the noise. Happy faces turned my way. They knew me. They knew how this place would get soon. While they got high, I’d swell with every negative emotion they let loose. Oh, how I hated them.

“The spit’s free,” I said with a glare. One of the customers had once told me my light green and amber-flecked eyes reminded him of snake eyes when I glared. He’d loved snakes. Of course he had.

Ethan bumped into me, drawing my attention and breaking my death glare.

“Don’t be like that. They love you.”

“Right.”

He slid the drink he’d just poured across the bar and turned to face me. He arched a brow. Concern softened his light brown eyes. It had been almost two months since I last saw his beautiful face. Despite the rage boiling in me, I smiled at him; and he relaxed a little.

“You’re going to love them more when you see who I have lined up for you, Miss Moody.”